


Cadavre Exquis

by universe_c



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Drinking, Drug Use, Hux loses his temper, M/M, Ren does too, Ren is too, Snoke Has Weird Unhealthy Ideas About Art, Snoke Is A Creep, art nerdery, enemies to collaborators, mild violence (mostly shoving), unhealthy relationship dynamic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9245216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universe_c/pseuds/universe_c
Summary: “Armitage Hux, I wish to commission you for an upcoming show.”“Of course,” Hux said, trying and failing to keep his voice even. Snoke wanted to commission him.“It is a very special show, an investigation into artistic collaboration. You will work with my protégé.” He inclined his head toward Kylo Ren. “Together, you will produce for me a body of work greater than the sum of its parts. And I will document your process. Agreed?”This, Hux knew with sudden and blinding clarity, was the opportunity that could make his career. All he had to do was put up with Kylo Ren for a little while and turn out the best work he possibly could.It would be simple, as long as he could keep his temper.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my excellent beta, [preciouscrowchild](http://preciouscrowchild.tumblr.com), and my expert art consultant [TCG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCG/pseuds/TCG). 
> 
> A thousand more thank yous to my muse/cheerleader/other expert art consultant [youdidnotseeme](http://youdidnotseeme.tumblr.com).
> 
> I am a very slow writer, so please be aware that new chapters will be infrequent. Check my [tumblr](http://universe-c.tumblr.com) for updates and preview snippets.

 

2915 was the largest canvas Hux had ever worked on. It had taken weeks of sanding and undercoating, then careful, meticulous layering of acrylics to achieve the final result - a perfect smooth gradient of pale yellow and eggshell white, giving the impression of a vast and airy space with a brilliant point of light at the end. No brushstrokes visible, though it was very much hand painted. It was an exercise in perfection of technique and the creation of illusion from pure color theory. Hux was slightly in love with it, all the moreso because his father had been unimpressed.

 

This opening kicked off the MFA program’s thesis defence season. He was the only person with a work in the main gallery space who wasn’t about to graduate. Hux had walked through the other rooms, checking out the various pieces, trying to keep his face neutral. He’d hovered near his painting for a while, watching the crowd. No one was looking at anything but the gauche conceptual piece the organizers had parked right in front of his canvas, as if he were some simple backdrop painter. 

 

This piece involved a naked, masked man sealed in a plexiglass box full of grey paint. The box was barely big enough to hold him, curled in fetal position, paint sloshing just at his chin. Hux had obligingly read the artist’s statement and found it derivative of early Chris Burden. He’d heard of the artist, Kylo Ren, and seen a couple of his other very public, very melodramatic performance pieces. In Hux’s opinion, his campus celebrity status was undeserved.

 

Hux suspected, from what he’d seen of Ren’s other pieces, that the paint was intended to be black. Ren probably extended it with some kind of filler to make enough for the entire box, rendering it that ashy grey. Sloppy. The mask appeared to contain some sort of breathing apparatus, with a tube extending to the top of the box. Also sloppy - it was only a matter of time before someone spilled a beer down it.

 

Hux forced himself to stop looking at the knobs of Ren’s spine, outlined in grey and pressed against the plexiglass. The stench of the paint was overpowering in the gallery, so Hux went outside to stand with the smokers and pointedly not look through the window. He forced his teeth to unclench before he bit through his rollie. He didn’t usually smoke unless he was drinking. He’d only managed a mouthful of the cheap white wine they were serving inside.

 

The magnolia tree outside the gallery made the air sweet and heavy. He continued pointedly not looking through the window as the murmur of voices crescendoed. He squashed down the mental image of Ren drowning in that box, hands sliding in panic against the walls. 

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket - a text from Phasma.

 

_ Get in here. _

 

Hux took a long drag on his rollie then crushed it out. 

 

Through the window, he could see Kylo Ren’s forearms white against the plexiglass. He saw the moment that the box split along a corner seam, saw the crowd jumping back. 

 

Hux did not run. He strode. 

 

Ashy grey paint slashed across 2915, dripping down into the small sea leaking from the box. Kylo Ren slithered free onto the floor, writhing as if in pain, still connected to the box by the umbilicus of the breathing tube. The crowd cheered as he produced a knife from somewhere, slashed through the tube and rose, shakily, to his feet.

 

Hux became aware that he was standing in the middle of the paint puddle, hands clenched into fists, blood beating in his ears. 

 

Ashy grey paint slashed across his perfect color field, completely ruining the illusion of depth. It dripped down the planes of Kylo Ren’s body. 

 

“You-” Hux said. 

 

The crowd hushed, the circle of bodies tightening.

 

Kylo Ren’s hands cupped his face. Thumbs stroked body warm paint across his cheek, into his beard. It splattered onto his shirt and tie. Ren’s eyes were invisible behind the mask, his breath hissing too loud through his breathing apparatus.

 

“Thus are we all reborn,” he intoned, voice muffled and distorted.

 

Hux had grown up in military academies. He’d been a top hand-to-hand fighter before his discharge. He knew how to throw a punch, was nearly blind with the urge to crush that mask under his knuckles. Instead, he shrugged Ren’s arms away from him, shifting his center of gravity lower. His boots had good tread, they caught and held on the paint-splashed tile. His elbow caught Ren in the chest.

 

Kylo Ren seemed unprepared for any kind of resistance. He toppled backwards directly onto 2915. 

 

The gallery was silent for a long moment. Then, as Kylo Ren peeled himself away from the canvas, it erupted into loud applause. 

 

Hux imagined wrapping his hands around Kylo Ren’s paint-slick throat.

 

Hux turned on his heel and fled before he tried it.

 

Phasma caught up to him at their favorite bar. She didn't try to talk about it. Hux appreciated that. She was a good roommate. The best roommate. The kind that paid her rent on time and didn’t fuck up Hux’s stuff and didn’t laugh at him more than strictly necessary.

 

Many whiskies later, the remains of the paint were dried hard in his beard. He’d probably have to shave the whole thing off. It was itchy anyway. He mostly liked it because his father disapproved. When they got home, there was a note taped to their apartment door. He was too tired and drunk to decipher the handwriting.

  
  


His hangover was dull and throbbing rather than vicious. Hux felt deflated, his anger punctured by an icy needle. 

 

2915 was ruined.

 

He reminded himself that those hours of work were not wasted. They were practice. Gessoing and sanding and smoothing acrylic onto canvas was like meditation, was training for his eye and muscle memory. He just had to stop replaying that scene - the slash of grey paint, the wet sound Ren’s body made when it connected with the canvas. 

 

He made coffee and oatmeal. Phasma left for her shift supervising the metal shop, where she was feared and worshipped in equal measure. She still hadn't tried to make him talk about it. They were both military brats. They understood each other. 

 

The note was barely legible. He had to wait until his painkillers kicked in before he could make out the words.

 

_ Our piece sold. Snoke wants to see more. Come and pick up your check tomorrow. _

 

It wasn’t signed, just scrawled with an address in the toniest part of town. Hux knew the street, a block of old industrial buildings converted to overpriced lofts. It wasn’t far from the upscale art shop where Hux worked weekends. 

 

The note had to be from Kylo Ren. That was the only plausible explanation, unless it had been taped to the wrong door. Now that he thought about it, there was a camera on a tripod aimed at that stupid box the whole time. Did the recording sell?  And to Snoke?  

 

He knew about Snoke, of course. Leonidas Snoke was astoundingly rich, an influential collector and tastemaker, very active on the alumni board. He’d funded the renovation of the photography studio which now bore his name and exhibited his unremarkable photos in the lobby. Hux was less familiar with his actual work than with his reputation. 

 

Had Snoke actually paid money for a recording of Kylo Ren ruining Hux’s best painting? And Ren was throwing Hux some scrap of the sale out of what, pity? Apology? 

 

Ren didn’t seem like the type to apologize.

 

It was Saturday. Hux’s shift at the art store started in less than an hour. He forced himself to put his boots on. There was still grey paint caught in the treads. 

 

He dumped the note into the garbage. 

 

But, really, Hux needed the money. Any amount. His fellowship paid tuition, but his TA position and weekend job barely covered his expenses. His entire savings was tied up in the security deposit on the place they were moving into next month. He wasn’t eating ramen, but only because plain brown rice and lentils were better for you. By the time he was through with his shift at the art store (long, boring, then abruptly over when he wasn’t looking), he had talked himself into walking by the address. It was only a couple of blocks off his usual route home.

 

Pride was less important than the purely practical matter of supporting himself. Of proving to his father that he could support himself. 

 

It had rained while he was in the store, but the puddles were already shrinking. The sun shone sideways under bruise-colored clouds, stinging his headache back to life.

 

Someone familiar was sitting on the stoop of one of the converted warehouses - that weird guy who lived in his building and always took midnight jogs. Hux and Phasma sometimes ran into him coming back from their bar. He had exactly that scatter of moles across the back of his right shoulder, exposed by the remains of a baggy sweater. Close up, he smelled of house paint, grey streaks still crusting his skin. 

 

Well. That explained how the note got to Hux’s door.

 

Kylo Ren didn’t react as Hux walked up to him. He seemed to have nodded off over his sketchbook, arms folded, paint-matted hair falling into his face. He was always masked for his performance pieces. Finding him so unguarded, so unexpectedly familiar, was disconcerting. Hux stared at the sketch for a long moment: two studies of a hand cupping a small mammal skull, whole in one, crushed to splinters in the other. It was, technically, not bad. Melodramatic, though. A scatter of tiny teeth and a rough hunk of charcoal lay on the step by Ren’s bare foot. He still had paint in the creases of his toes.

 

“You’re late.” Ren smirked at him, peering up through his hair.

 

“I was working,” Hux snapped. “Your note didn’t specify a time.”

 

It annoyed Hux out of all proportion that he would pretend to be asleep like that. Rude. Pointless. A move in some opaque game with no clear or coherent goals. Hux hated not knowing the rules of engagement.

 

“You could’ve at least showered after your little stunt,” Hux said. 

 

“I was working.”

 

Hux could feel his blood pressure rising at that smirk. He strongly considered just walking away. Again. 

 

“Come in, then,” Ren said, standing abruptly. Charcoal and bone dust drifted from the folds of his sweater. He’d cut his pinstripe slacks off so short that the pockets hung out the leg holes. 

 

Ren punched a code into the keypad, then bowed to Hux, sweeping the door open with mocking chivalry. Hux tried to make his teeth unclench, then tried again.

 

“You need the money, don’t you?” Ren asked sweetly. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come.”

 

Hux could just get the money and leave. He was going to take the money. And then leave.

 

Hux put his boot on the step. The scatter of mouse teeth crunched under his weight. Ren smirked. Hux somehow did not punch him. 

  
  


This building had been a warehouse, all twenty foot ceilings, brick pillars and tall, arched windows. It was very clearly an artist’s studio and a luxuriously well-appointed one. Tucked into the forest of easels and workbenches, Hux spotted a dedicated canvas stretching area, an old fashioned letterpress and what looked like a glassworking lamp.  All available surfaces were covered with paper, fabric, random wire, rolled canvas, dried out brushes, takeout containers, tools, discarded clothing and costume pieces. If it weren’t for the mess, Hux would be deadly envious.

 

Hux followed Ren toward the back corner of the space, where an iron spiral stair rose up to the floor above. A round, cushioned platform hung from some chains, covered in crumpled blankets.  An unmarked manila envelope sat in a conspicuous clear spot on an otherwise overloaded workbench. A selection of large-scale paintings and photo prints were hung on the brick wall. 

 

Hux froze. 2915 was here. It should be in the gallery still. The show was supposed to be up for the rest of the semester.

 

Ren’s body print was surprisingly clear: a cloud of hair, upraised arm and shoulder, narrow waist. Hux felt he couldn’t breathe. It was offensively evocative, offensively concrete: a figure burned to ash by a great and terrible light. 

 

Kylo Ren’s name was written at the bottom corner of the canvas, in an obnoxious, over-practiced graffiti style. In silver sharpie.

 

“You  _ signed _ my painting,” Hux snarled, whirling on him. Discipline. He hadn’t lashed out at Ren, after that first time. He was a civilian now, but still disciplined.

 

“Our painting,” Ren corrected. “I was thinking Starkiller. For the title.” 

 

Hux’s Glare of Righteous Disapproval worked wonders on his undergrads. Ren just looked amused. 

 

“This is not ‘our’ painting. This is my painting which you  _ defaced.”  _

 

Ren snorted. “Do you always try to make your opponents’ points for them?  You must have been terrible on the debate team. So that’s why you’re in art school. Your check is there.”

 

He pointed with his chin.

 

Hux snatched up the unmarked envelope and reminded himself to breathe. Ren was baiting him. The painting was ruined even before Ren stole it. Ruined it, then stole it. Hux wouldn’t have kept it anyway, after it was ruined.

 

The check was for 2,915 dollars. 

 

It was a calculated insult.

 

But it was also nearly  _ three thousand dollars _ . Enough to ease their move, get his car’s fan belt fixed, to buy himself the new brushes he kept eyeing at work. Enough grocery money for months.

 

He wouldn’t have kept the ruined painting anyway. He wouldn’t even have to look at it. He was going to take the check and leave. Kylo Ren was graduating in just a few weeks. With luck, Hux would never see him again.

 

“You looked better with the beard. Less corporate,” Ren said. 

 

“You look better in a mask,” Hux said, which was petty and stupid. Regrettable. 

 

“So, you're a fan of my work then?” Ren raised an eyebrow. “Are you always this pissy when you're intimidated?” 

 

Hux drew breath to yell. 

 

The spiral stairs creaked. 

 

“Ah. Armitage Hux, isn’t it?” 

 

Leonidas Snoke was hairless and shriveled, with a distinctive forehead scar. He’d survived brain cancer maybe two decades ago, then quit his hedge fund and poured all his considerable wealth into art. His spiritual conversion from finance to photography was as much part of his legend as the many artists he’d discovered and promoted on their way to stardom. He owned galleries in multiple cities and had endowed chairs at a number of prestigious art and design schools. 

 

He took a few steps down the spiral stair, leaning heavily on an ornate cane. He was wrapped in a black quilted dressing gown, like something out of an old masterpiece theater episode. He leaned against the railing and squinted down at Hux, looming despite his obvious frailty. His voice was soft but carrying.

 

“I am gratified that you accepted our invitation, Armitage,” he said. 

 

“I go by Hux. Sir.” Hux winced internally at the sir. He hadn’t sirred anyone but his father since he left West Point. “May I ask why, exactly, you felt this invitation was necessary?”

 

“A simple appreciation for talent and happy coincidence.  Like all photographers, I depend on serendipity. Even more than the final result, which is very fine indeed, I find myself intrigued by the event. The leap of creativity across the synapse between two minds.”

 

Hux swallowed a sour taste of bile. He tried to formulate some reply. Snoke was staring down at him from the stairs as if he could peel Hux open and see inside.

 

“Armitage Hux,” Snoke said, and Hux felt his spine snap straight and rigid to attention. “I wish to commission you for an upcoming show.” 

 

Snoke wanted to commission him.  _ Snoke _ wanted to  _ commission _ him.

 

“Of course,” Hux said, trying and failing to keep his voice even. 

 

Snoke held up a hand.

 

“It is a very special show, an investigation into artistic collaboration. You will work with my protégé.” He inclined his head toward Kylo Ren.  Ren’s smirk had fallen away but returned as Hux glanced at him. “Together, you will produce for me a body of work greater than the sum of its parts. And I will document your process. Agreed?”

 

This, Hux knew with sudden and blinding clarity, was  _ the _ opportunity that could make his career. All he had to do was put up with Kylo Ren for a little while and turn out the best work he possibly could. The semester would be over soon and he’d have as much time as needed to devote to Snoke’s commission. He could prove himself. He could be the next star Snoke launched into the art world.

 

“I. Is that all of your… terms?” Hux managed to choke out. “No… further themes or guidelines?”

 

“ The result will be displayed at my First Street Gallery beginning in August. You will be given full access to this studio and expected to do your work here. You will sign some documents giving me permission to use your image. And, of course, along with the exposure, I will facilitate the sale of any pieces I deem worthy.”

 

Hux could feel his pulse at his throat and temples. The First Street Gallery.  _ His _ work would be displayed in Snoke’s  _ First Street Gallery _ before he’d even graduated.

 

“Breathe,” Kylo Ren murmured, entirely too close to Hux’s ear. The spike of irritation steadied him. 

 

All he had to do was make nice with Kylo Ren. For a show in the First Street Gallery he would plait Ren’s ridiculous hair and maybe even consider complementing his work. For a show in the First Street Gallery he would bear anything.

 

“I accept,” Hux announced.

 

“Decisive. I appreciate that. Come, children, your first assignment.”

 

Ren was looking at him with an unreadable expression, eyebrows raised. Hux glared back. It took a long, awkward few minutes for Snoke to descend all the way down the stairs. Finally, Ren broke their staring contest and swept over to take Snoke’s arm. Snoke patted him absently, the way one might pat a dog. 

 

Snoke had two identical canvases ready on two easels. They looked well stretched but were totally unprimed - probably not factory-made, then.

 

“First, an exercise in meshing disparate styles, in letting go of control.” Snoke said. “You will have twenty-four hours to begin a canvas. Then you will trade and each finish the other’s work. It is something like the game they call _le_ _cadavre exquis_. Except, in this case, nothing is hidden. Nothing is safe.”

 

Snoke side-eyed Hux. Ren was also watching him, affecting boredom. 

 

“You do understand that artistic collaboration is not a safe activity,” Snoke said. 

 

“You mean unsafe in an... intellectual way?” Hux asked after a moment. They were clearly expecting him to say something. “I suppose that’s the point?”

 

Snoke smiled. His teeth were too creepily perfect to be anything but dentures. 

 

“Emotional. Spiritual. Physical,” he said. “Throw comfort aside. Work each piece as if your life depends on it. That is the truest way.” 

 

Ren snorted. “We’ll see if you’re capable.” 

 

Snoke’s spiritual bullshit was at least as irritating as Ren’s posturing, Hux thought. Still, this was no worse than keeping his face blank while a drill sergeant chewed him out. For a show at the First Street Gallery it was a small price to pay. 

 

The check burned in Hux’s hand, clasped behind his back where he’d settled automatically into parade rest.

 

“I will make every effort,” he said. “When do we begin?”

 

Snoke glanced down at his wristwatch. “You have twenty-three hours and fifty five minutes remaining.” 

 

\- - - -

 

Hux enjoyed preparing a canvas. His acrylic techniques relied on just the right surface texture and absorbency, and he’d perfected a method to achieve it. The twenty-four hour time limit was constraining, but the canvas was small enough that he could make it marginally acceptable before he left for the night. He had a short morning shift at the store tomorrow and some assignments to work on at home. But he wasn’t supposed to supply a completed piece, just a beginning.

 

A good enough beginning to impress Snoke. No problem. Hux was surprised that the old man hadn’t stuck around to leer at them any further. He’d simply given Hux the combination for the door keypad and said goodnight.

 

Ren put on some doom metal, all slow-shifting, heavy guitar and deliberate cymbal crashes, and cranked the volume until Hux could feel the floor vibrate. Then he retreated to a plastic covered table and started viciously wedging a lump of clay, ignoring both Hux and the canvas he was supposed to be working on. Hux decided some slight hearing loss was acceptable in exchange for not having to actually talk to him. Ren’s taste in music might be the only tolerable thing about him.

 

Snoke had said he had free use of the studio. Hux managed to find the right gesso, a brush that was only half-destroyed and a heat gun in the mess. He hauled the canvas and easel over toward the front corner of the studio where a rack of lights would let him see what he was doing. It was also, coincidentally, as far as possible from Ren and the stereo system. 

 

The rhythm of brush and sandpaper was soothing, meditative. Hux let his hands glide with the slow beat of the music, considering what to do with the canvas. It was was much smaller than he preferred to work, only about two feet square. Confining. But it was also a gateway into his future. A long, low hall, both infinite and claustrophobic, narrowing to a vanishing point. But should he adopt Ren’s preferred monochrome palette, or challenge it with some color? Were there even any acrylics in this mess?

 

The light reddened, shifting up the walls, then faded. Hux became aware that the album had started over some time ago. The canvas was getting close to how he wanted it. The spotlights made all of the tiny imperfections and edges of fingerprints stand out starkly. Hux would have to bring some rubber gloves from home to do a final sanding. 

 

In a sudden quiet between tracks, Ren said far too close to his ear, “Is that really all you’ve done for the last three hours?” 

 

Hux didn’t sink an elbow into Ren’s gut in fight or flight startlement. He could feel Ren’s breath on his ear, smell the sour mix of body odor, paint and clay. 

 

“And what have you been doing?” Hux asked. He shot a significant glance toward Ren’s canvas, still untouched on its easel. 

 

“Working.” 

 

“On?”

 

“Concepts. Studies. Something other than a blank canvas.” 

 

Hux looked from the smashed bits of clay littering the table to Ren’s profile. He was leaning over Hux’s shoulder, deliberately invading his personal space, glaring at the prepped canvas like it had personally offended him. 

 

“Please tell me you actually know how to prep a canvas correctly.”

 

Ren shifted his contemptuous stare to Hux’s face, still far too close for comfort. Hux suddenly needed a cigarette, grimacing at the urge. He decided he could do his studies for the shading and color at home. 

 

“Well. I look forward to seeing what you produce,” Hux said, letting only the faintest tinge of irony into his voice. He slid away from Ren and grabbed his bag off the windowsill.

 

“I’ll be back - hey. Ren.  _ Don’t touch that.”  _

 

“Smooth,” Ren murmured. “But you can’t ever get rid of the texture underneath. Not completely.” 

 

“And now I’ll have to get your body soil out of the surface before I can begin tomorrow. Tell me, have you ever even taken a painting class? If Snoke wanted to get you a tutor in acrylics he should have just hired someone.” 

 

Ren held his eyes as he dragged his fingers over Hux’s canvas again. Hux knew his anger was showing. He could feel it in the tension of his jaw. He could see it in the way Ren was smirking at him. This was a game to Kylo Ren, Hux thought. It was going to become very tiresome very quickly. He had to somehow nip it in the bud. He closed his eyes, forced himself to relax his shoulders. 

 

“Do you even want to participate in this project?” Hux asked, his tone miraculously reasonable. “If you’re going to fight me every step, I’d rather you say so before I commit myself further.”

 

“You won’t back out,” Ren said. He dug his fingernails into the canvas, scarring the surface of the gesso. Hux stepped in and snatched his hand away. 

 

“You’re right, I won’t.” Hux hissed. Ren loomed. Hux stood his ground, fingers tight on Ren’s wrist. “Will you? Was provoking me constantly part of Snoke’s plan, or is that just your four-year-old mentality at work? What are you expecting from this, Kylo Ren? What do you want?”

 

Ren’s free hand landed on Hux’s cheek, an echo of the caress at the opening. 

 

“I want to crack your skull open and climb inside,” he whispered. “I want to make you show me everything.” 

 

“You don’t scare me.” Hux said. “Cut the posturing. Stop sabotaging my work. We have a job to do, and I will not allow you to ruin it for me.” 

 

Hux wrenched himself out of Ren’s suddenly tight grip and took two steps back toward the door. 

 

“Also, take a fucking shower,” he spat. “You’re disgusting.” 

 

Ren looked a bit like Hux had just slapped him, as if no one in his entire life had ever stood up to him.

 

Hux savored the thought of it on the long walk home. 

 

\- - - -

 

Snoke’s studio was silent when Hux arrived the next day, seemingly empty until Kylo Ren shifted in his sleep and set the hanging platform swinging. It was well past noon. The canvas Ren was supposed to start was still untouched. Hux was both unsurprised and unimpressed. 

 

He returned to his canvas in the far corner, rotating the easel so Ren wouldn’t be able to sneak up on him again. He’d deposited his check that morning and splurged on new brushes, gesso and paint with his employee discount at work. He arranged the lights so that the gouges Ren put in his canvas would stand out clearly. He snapped on his rubber gloves and got to work. 

 

He did notice when Ren’s face turned toward him, dark eyes squinted nearly shut. He ignored Ren’s attention. He ignored Ren’s awkward shuffle off the hanging bed, the way he was dressed only in tiny jogging shorts, the way his hair fell when not crusted stiff with paint. Hux made a special effort not to notice Ren puttering around with a mason jar of tea, then strapping on some ancient sneakers and departing through the back door.

 

The studio really did have excellent light, and none of the constant traffic roar that hummed around his current apartment. It had more than enough space to work at the scale Hux would prefer, once they got this silly little experiment out of the way. Hux dug his sketchbook out of his satchel and examined the series of pastel studies he had done that morning over breakfast. Snoke wanted them to challenge each other? Good, he thought. Let Kylo Ren take on something precise, geometric, and colorful. 

 

Greens, he decided, and set to work mixing color. A quick check of his watch told him he’d have to hurry. There simply wasn’t time for his usual, deliberate build up of transparent layers. He settled for making each brush stroke as accurate and as orderly as he could manage. It would be far below his usual standards, but his usual standards were wasted on Ren anyway. 

 

Ren came back from his run and hosed himself down in the yard beside the building. Hux, thankfully, could only see his head through the window. He put special care into the shading toward the center of the painting where the long, square space narrowed to a vanishing point.  Ren threw open the back door and flung himself, dripping wet, back onto the hanging bed. 

 

Disgusting. 

 

Hux decided he was finished when his hands began shaking. He’d skipped lunch. There was a very nice vegan cafe a few blocks away, and he could actually afford to indulge himself in some decent food. He had about forty-five minutes before their twenty-four hour assignment would be up. Hux dug a pencil out of his bag and put his usual title/date on the outside of the frame - 41515, April 15th, 2015. He cast one last, doubtful look at Ren’s untouched canvas and left. 

 

What he found when he got back was even less than he’d anticipated.

 

Charcoal smudges looped across Ren’s unprimed canvas, from a distance blending into a series of interlocking, oversimplified faces. Up close it was such a mess Hux couldn’t even make out the subject, the lines too broken up by the texture of the canvas. He had to be right about Ren’s lack of painting experience. Either that or he was being deliberately disrespected. Probably both.

 

Ren was lounging on the hanging bed with half a joint perched on his lip. He exhaled a long stream of smoke and said, “Really? You went with hospital green?”

 

“At least I put some modicum of thought and effort into this. You appear to have spent five minutes channeling Edvard Munch.”

 

Ren’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 

 

Snoke’s cane made a hollow boom as he rapped it against the tread of the iron stairs. Simultaneously, Hux’s phone buzzed in his pocket with the alarm for their first deadline. 

 

“Ah, Armitage,” he said, “I need you upstairs. As I indicated yesterday, we have some paperwork to take care of.”

 

The spiral stairs emerged into an open plan office. The space was dominated by a massive photo print, blown up to cover the entire wall: a black and white photo of a male nude in shibari, arms bound across his bowed back, head hanging forward, ass presented to the camera. The angle of the shot rendered him an anonymous mass of rope and straining muscle. Hux tore his eyes away and kept them on the brutalist slab of Snoke’s desk. Snoke was wrapped in a completely different, but no less cliché, black dressing gown, his fingers cold and thin on Hux’s elbow. Up close, he smelled as if he’d set a well dressed gentleman on fire, then rolled in the ashes.

 

Hux forced himself to read through the paperwork. He kept catching himself skimming the cramped paragraphs, realizing he wasn’t absorbing the meaning of the words. There was some kind of rhythmic pounding coming from downstairs; his inability to identify the sound was distracting. 

 

But really, would Hux let any terms keep him from participating in this career-making project?  No, he decided. He flipped to the back page and signed with Snoke’s no-doubt astronomically expensive fountain pen. He’d reread his copy later.

 

“Good,” Snoke said, touching Hux’s arm again. Snoke’s voice was like paper brushed the wrong way across his hairs. “Now, we’ll go and see what my dear protégés have created for their first exercise.” 

 

They descended. Ren was not panicking over his so-called painting as Hux had hoped. Instead, he was back at his plastic-covered table, his entire body swaying with the effort of wedging clay. Ren’s canvas was entirely unchanged and entirely offensive. When Hux moved his own work next to it, the difference in effort and expertise was glaring. 

 

The pounding continued for several minutes while Snoke contemplated the pair of canvasses. Then, Ren materialized at Hux’s shoulder, standing well inside his personal space, reeking of pot and smirking. 

 

Snoke produced a small digital camera from the pocket of his robe and snapped a picture of the two canvases. He turned and snapped a picture of the two of them, then another, before tucking the camera away again.

 

“Well, get to work,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me.”

 

Ren lurched forward, the entire length of his arm accidentally-on-purpose brushing Hux’s side. He dragged his fingers across Hux’s canvas, tracing a squared off spiral around the vanishing point. Hux tried to contain his cringe. It was out of his hands now. He needed only to concern himself with Ren’s charcoal mess. 

 

Ren lifted the canvas from the stand, turned it over in his hands, then expressionlessly put his fist through the center of it.

 

Hux had taken a bad fall once, on a backpacking trip with the boy scouts. He’d lost his footing and pitched forward onto bare rock, his fifty-pound backpack coming down on top of him. The same kind of crushing pressure descended on his chest as Ren ruined his painting. Again.

 

Hux could feel his mouth hanging open. Ren wasn’t even looking at the canvas, was smirking directly into Hux’s face, lapping up his reaction like a starved dog. Snoke’s camera flashed three times in quick succession. Hux snapped his jaw closed so hard his teeth hurt.

 

He took two strides forward, snatched Ren’s canvas up and made for the door. 

 

“Ah, Armitage,” Snoke said, “Have you forgotten the terms of our agreement already? The work stays here.”

 

“Of course,” he said, forcing the words through a noose of rage. He detoured to his corner, placed Kylo Ren’s desecrated canvas on his easel, then let himself out into the drizzling rain. 

 

By the time Hux calmed himself down enough to think rationally, he was three quarters of the way home and chain smoking. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around and go back to the studio. It would be dark by the time he made it all the way back. Ren would be there, smirking at him. 

 

Hux told himself that he was overreacting. He’d barely put five or six hours into the canvas, started it only yesterday. It was just an exercise. There was no need to have such an emotional reaction. 

 

No, this reaction wasn’t about the painting. It was about Kylo Ren and his petty bullying tactics. Did he think this was middle school? Hux was twenty-seven years old, not twelve. He had absolutely no reason to tolerate this kind of behavior.

 

Hux imagined Ren would feel no need to do any further modification to the piece. A hasty, imperfect canvas with a fist through it - exactly the kind of teenaged statement on Art that Ren built his oeuvre around. 

 

Hux’s apartment was a fourth floor walkup, dingy, cramped, and ridiculously overpriced due to its proximity to campus. Phasma had her chainmail supplies spread out across their kitchen table, rings of steel wire gleaming under her adjustable lamp. The radio was tuned to the local college station’s Sunday night EDM/Industrial show. Hux shut the door harder than necessary. She saluted him with her beer without looking up from her pliers. 

 

The kitchen was exactly long enough for three angry strides before Hux had to turn around and pace the other direction. 

 

“Try not to wear a hole in the floor,” Phasma said mildly. “I want my security deposit back.” 

 

“Fuck!” Hux shouted, throwing his hands up. 

 

“There’s more beer, if you need it.”

 

Hux tore the fridge open and slammed it shut again. He leaned his head against its ugly, avocado-green door and made an effort not to crush the beer can in his fist. The linoleum was a clashing shade of dusty rose, and already so worn the pattern was barely discernable. It had been that way since they moved in.

 

Hux did not fling himself into a chair. Their kitchen chairs were too rickety for that kind of melodrama. 

 

“Status report?” Phasma asked. 

 

“Kylo Ren is fucking intolerable.”

 

“Reasons?”

 

“He put his fist through my painting.”

 

At that she looked up, eyebrow quirking. “You feel like you should have seen it coming. Like you should have stopped him.”

 

Hux met her eyes for a long moment. He deliberately unclenched his teeth.

 

“How do you do that?” he complained. 

 

“I know you. So, come on. How are you planning to get him back?”

 

Hux took a long pull on his beer. It was cheap and terribly sour. Phasma returned to her rings, threading four closed loops onto an open one, pinching it shut, then dropping the assembled unit into a tupperware.  _ Ching. _

 

Hux sighed. His throat felt rough and half-closed with smoke. “I shouldn’t. I have to work with him. Snoke had him first; I can only assume that he’ll take precedence if the two of us can’t work together.”

 

“Forgiveness from Armitage Hux? Surely you jest.”

 

“Yes. Well. I’ll have to confine my revenge to showing him up. Phas, he didn’t even  _ paint _ anything. He used  _ charcoal _ on  _ raw canvas _ . What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

 

“Show him up, obviously.” 

 

“You make it sound so simple.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

“No.”

 

“That’s the kind of attitude a minimalist needs,” she said. “So, are we getting shitfaced? If so, get me another beer.”

 

“I have to TA tomorrow,” Hux mumbled, and got her another beer. He would replace it with some more palatable beer, now that he had the cash. Or, better yet, whiskey. 

 

\- - - - 

 

Visiting his mother in the hospital was one of Hux’s earliest memories: the patterned tile, the pinch of his outgrown shoes, the way his father steered him by the shoulder. The dread of approaching her door, of watching her yellow and decay beneath the baby-pink blanket. The cancer was in her pancreas first, then her liver, then everywhere. 

 

Some time last night, Ren had taken a black sharpie to Hux’s painting. He’d added a crude, shaky outline of baseboards, uniform closed doors, the lines of a gurney topped with a vaguely corpse-shaped bundle. Pushing through the ruptured skin of the hallway were spears of broken glass, a cluster of blades blooming from a childhood memory that Ren could not possibly know about.

 

It was juvenile, Hux thought. Obvious. Offensively  _ evocative. _

 

Hux turned his back on the work, retreated to his own easel in the front corner of Snoke’s studio. It was a jaunty seven in the morning, a time deliberately chosen to annoy any late sleepers in residence. But Ren was not in evidence this morning. At least Hux wouldn’t have to talk to him, wouldn’t have to endure either his attention or his deliberate snubbing. 

 

Looking at Ren’s charcoal-smear faces made his heart pound harder. What was he supposed to do with this? Ren hadn’t even primed the damn canvas. Any paint applied would be a hideously textured mess. If Hux primed and sanded properly, Ren’s kindergarten scribblings would be buried. 

 

The thought was very tempting. But he didn’t imagine Snoke would be happy. He supposed he would have to keep some element of it. Some kind of spray-on sealer might preserve the offensive scrawl well enough that he could do something over it. A brush-on medium would smear it. But that might not be a bad thing. Perhaps the swooping forms of the faces could be blended and distilled into… something. 

 

Hux tore his eyes away from the profile of the broken glass, still menacing the empty space near the clay table. He massaged his temples, frowned at Ren’s ruined canvas, then rotated it ninety degrees. 

 

Okay, yes. He could see the image waiting in the negative space of Ren’s preschooler scrawl. A distant horizon, roiling waves. He'd even keep the color scheme - black and white. 

 

First he'd have to do something about that raw canvas, though. This was supposed to be an experiment. Fine. 

 

After going through several tables and shelves, Hux managed to locate a jar of matt medium that wasn’t dried out or empty. He found a cheap brush sitting in a crusty water jar and washed it as best he could. It was ruined already but he was only going to ruin it further. 

 

The brush picked up the charcoal and smudged it into the medium, blending the faces away into billowing clouds. 

 

This painting was going to be terrible, Hux realized. There was nothing he could do to give it the sense of scale, depth and precision he expected from his pieces.  _ He _ had at least given Ren something to work with. At this angle, he could see the flimsy sheet of foam Ren had used to hold the glass in place. A few of the longest shards poked through the back. Sloppy, Hux thought. He couldn’t imagine the piece would hold together long enough to be transported and hung. 

 

From outside Hux heard a bang of metal on metal, followed by the high whine of a power drill. He caught a glimpse of Ren’s messy man-bun passing by the window. Luckily, Hux had had the foresight to bring his noise-canceling headphones. A scroll through his phone failed to find any music that appealed to him at the moment. Well, perhaps their presence would be enough to deter Ren’s attention. 

 

Hux acknowledged to himself that he was stalling, wasting the precious, limited time he had left for this assignment. He put his brush to the canvas, grimly determined to salvage this thing somehow.

 

Some time in hour four, deep in the throes of desperation, he decided to add color. The steely blue wash did nothing he wanted it to. Carefully whiting out the offending blue was a setback he couldn’t afford. He skipped lunch. 

 

Perhaps he should just put his fist through the thing now, Hux thought, make them a matched set. 

 

Ren only came into the studio briefly, once, around noon. He spent a few minutes shuffling through the contents of a fabric-strewn table, ignoring Hux’s glare, then left again with scraps of black lace trailing from his fist. 

 

Only the faintest trace of charcoal smears were still visible as Hux’s time began to run down. He had slathered the paint on far thicker than he usually would, trying to compensate for the lack of prep work. But no amount of acrylic seemed able to conceal the offensive texture of raw canvas. That visible weave gave the whole thing a sort of craft fair unprofessionalism that Hux absolutely loathed. God, he hated seascapes. This was the kind of piece you relegate to the dumpster before the paint even dried. He wasn’t even going to title it.

 

If he had modeling paste or anything comparable, he might have been able to develop something out of the shadows cast by the ripples of the paint. If he could remove all the charcoal and make it pure white, casting shadows on itself with smooth, precise ridges of material, that would be even better. If he’d just spent some more time calming down, planning,  _ thinking _ , he might have come up with the compromise in time to implement it. But he didn’t have the time or the supplies to correct course, and he had to get to campus for his Painting 102 seminar.

 

What he did have was a well-prepared speech about how this abortion of a painting was entirely Ren’s fault. He’d been refining this speech for hours, as he applied layer after layer of mistakes to the canvas. 

 

“I see you kept the channel open to our dear friend Munch,” Ren said, his voice rumbling from inside Hux’s personal space. 

 

Hux’s elbow miraculously did not connect with Ren’s side. He did, however, drop his brush, adding yet another splash to his paint-flecked boots. 

 

“I decided not to paint over your contribution entirely.” Hux bit out. “That would be against the spirit of the exercise.” 

 

His voice was a croak, his throat dry and tight with stress. He needed water. His bottle was empty. He turned his back on whatever sass was about to issue from Ren’s smug face and marched over to the sink. The bottom was completely filled with moldy mason jars and takeout containers. Hux steeled himself against the smell as he let the faucet run. The tap water was sharp with chlorine.

 

“This needs something,” Ren said, soft and carrying in the still studio. “An imperfection. A rupture. More of a shipwreck, less of a trainwreck.” 

 

“Don’t you  _ dare _ touch it.”  Hux bit back the insult that desperately wanted to append itself to that sentence. Ren had already rotated the canvas ninety degrees, and was chewing his lip as he ran a finger down the smudgy horizon line. Hux stalked over and muscled Ren away from the canvas. He was well aware of how awful it was and absolutely did not need Ren rubbing it in. 

 

“Second warning,” Hux said. “Stop trying to make me lose my temper. It’s counterproductive.”

 

Ren was still staring at the painting. Hux shook his shoulder. 

 

“Ren. Answer me when I speak to you.”

 

“A gash in the fabric of the sky,” Ren murmured, and suddenly his face was very close. His eyes were dark and earnest and full of some fervor which struck Hux as entirely ludicrous. This whole situation was ludicrous. Perhaps he’d be better off failing out of this experiment on the first day.

 

Hux dropped Ren’s shoulder and took a long step back. Constantly being the bigger person was going to be a strain. Kylo Ren was clearly bent on making it as difficult as possible. But Hux had done many difficult things in his life. Think of First Street, he told himself.

 

“I have to go TA,” he said. “Do not touch my work uninvited.”

 

Not that he could stop Ren, or fix the damage, or fix the utter mess that the painting already was. Hux had only half an hour to get to campus and prep for his undergrads, and would barely make it back by Snoke’s deadline. 

 

Ren didn’t acknowledge Hux’s directive. He stared at the canvas and rotated it another ninety degrees.

 

Hux had no time for Ren’s inscrutable posturing. Snoke had said this was an exercise in letting go of control. Fine. He would.

 

\- - - -

 

Hux was well aware of his reputation among the undergrads. He’d groomed it deliberately. He had high expectations, counted attendance toward final grades and pulled no punches when critiquing. Some could take it and some couldn’t; there was at least one cryer and a couple of dropouts in each of his seminars. But Hux wasn’t here to coddle teenagers’ feelings. He was here to make them better painters, to drill the technical perfection into them that would best serve their vision later. Every single student that came through his class showed marked improvement by the end of the semester, no exceptions. Some of them, the really dedicated ones, thrived. 

 

He expected much more of himself than he did of them.

 

His 102 class’s chiaroscuro assignment was a mixed bag. Hux absolutely did not let his mind drift to that wretched seascape as he reminded the class that paintings were made up of decisions, and each one, no matter how minute, needed to be deliberately weighed and considered. He had the kids spend the exact same amount of time talking over each piece, regardless of quality. He checked in on their final projects and reminded them of their deadlines. 

 

On the way back to Snoke’s he attempted to engage the mental state one adopts for rigorous physical training: a certain numbness, a deliberate distance from one’s own internal monologue. He should have read the paperwork more closely before he signed it. He liked to have a clear idea of the consequences of failure. 

 

Snoke spent nearly five minutes silently staring at the paired canvases, then said, “Armitage, I expect better. Try again. Your twenty-four hours starts now.”

 

He raised his camera and took a picture of the look on Hux’s face. Hux walked out, again, but only did a lap around the block and smoked two rollies before returning. His idea about the modeling paste would take time to implement. He had another seminar to teach the next day, plus a major assignment due at the end of the week. He couldn’t afford to waste time. 

 

Snoke, the humiliating seascape and Ren’s glass pile had all disappeared by the time Hux returned. In their place were two raw canvases of the same confining size. Hux could only feel grateful. He spent as long as he could stand prepping the canvas. Ren deliberately parked himself in front of 2915 and alternated between doing endless sets of push ups and staring at him.

 

At home, Hux poured himself a whisky and stared into its depths for upwards of twenty minutes. He put a few layers of delicate, translucent flesh tone onto the project for his large-scale painting class, then felt sick of looking at it and switched to grading essays. Later, too late really for how early he had to be up the next morning, he dug an unopened tube of modeling paste out of his paintbox and whipped up a few studies. Snoke would never know he’d done them away from the studio, in breach of contract. 

 

He would’ve normally taken the time to hand-shape the ridges of paint, to make his lines and angles mathematically perfect by manual skill alone. But Hux had a morning seminar to teach and a paper to finish before he could start work. His battered metal t-square was acceptable as a shortcut, its right angle repeated across the canvas.The results were, of course, much less than he’d usually expect from himself, but interesting as a rough concept. Under a bright light, the lines of shadow moved in pleasing parallel. 

 

Ren turned up less than five minutes before their deadline, his wet hair leaving dark patches on his grimy sweater. Ren’s effort once again left much to be desired; he’d simply taken what looked like several hundred sewing pins and stuck them haphazardly through the blank canvas. Hux sighed, snapped a few pictures on his phone and marked their locations on the back of the canvas before removing them all. He primed and painted, then laboriously replaced each pin where Ren had put it. Those thin flashes of silver ruined the piece, rendering the illusionary space of his colorfields flat and nondescript. It  _ was _ better than the seascape, he supposed. Faint praise at best.

 

Ren took Hux’s white-on-white study and slashed it open. The ragged edges of the canvas were stained with something rotten-smelling and brownish pink, then messily stitched back together with bright red thread. It was unbelievably juvenile and faintly disgusting. Messy. Visceral. 

 

Snoke took pictures, hummed thoughtfully behind his camera, then said, “Again.”

 

The third attempt was right up against several deadlines for his classes. Hux had little time to spare for it, and dashed out a simple spatial study in three point perspective. Ren tore the canvas off the frame and folded it into a drooping fan shape, like a towel at a pretentious hotel. Hux spared almost no thought to the mess of pre-shredded, pinned-together canvas Ren gave him. He gave up halfway through patching it, and ended up with a piece that was neat and perfect on one side but decayed into scraps by the other.

 

Snoke seemed pleased by both of these results for reasons Hux couldn’t possibly guess at. Snoke had another pair of canvases ready for them, and still no directions or constructive comments to dispense.

 

For attempt four, Hux returned to the modeling paste, contrasting dimensional raised lines with his usual color-driven optical illusions. Ren sliced it out of its frame, then bound it onto a larger frame as if stretching a hide to dry, cracks and ripples crazing the surface of the acrylic.  Ren had apparently dropped a bundle of canvas scraps all over his piece and stitched them in place where they fell. Hux took the uneven surface, and attempted to shade the folds and raw edges away into an illusion of flatness. The texture of the canvas ruined the whole thing, in Hux’s opinion. Another effort wasted on inappropriate materials with insufficient forethought. 

 

Hux gave up counting their exchanges after a while. He frequently chose to sacrifice sleep to fit his obligations in around the maximum possible hours of work at Snoke’s studio. He even, occasionally, allowed Phasma to talk him into taking a few hours off for a decent meal. He was getting better at ignoring Ren’s needling, but Ren’s blatant lack of care and effort still sent Hux out to do laps of the block at least once during every work session. Finals crept closer. Snoke never offered any kind of critique. Hux struggled to hold his tongue each time Snoke commanded, “Again!”

 

The last straw was the seascape, that first disaster, reappearing cut up and appliqued messily over Hux’s latest modeling paste experiment. A plaster cast hand clawed its way from beneath, clinging to the scraps as if drowning. 

 

Hux came to himself with splinters of the frame digging into the meat of his palms. His fist hadn’t gone through the canvas. Smashing it against the floor was much more effective. 

 

Ren’s eyes were enormously dark, swallowing, smothering. His smile grew wider and wider as Hux panted for breath. 

 

_ “Yes,” _ he breathed, and his touch was unacceptably warm and gentle, prying Hux’s fingers from the splintered frame. “Yes, Hux.  _ Yes.”  _

 

Hux snatched his hands out of Ren’s, found himself steered by the elbow to the wall, where a convenient nail let Ren hang the thing from an intact corner. Broken wood peeked through the canvas in several places. The smashed lower half of the frame dangled, twisting slightly, distending the patched layers of canvas into ugly pouches. The plaster cast hand seemed to clutch even more desperately for purchase, in real danger now of falling off the piece entirely. 

 

“It’s perfect,” Ren murmured. His fingers dragged over the tendons of Hux’s wrist, sliding under the cuff of his shirt. Hux shuddered, unable to decide if he was hot or cold. He’d shown weakness, losing his temper like that. He’d never break Ren of his juvenile, counterproductive behaviors unless he could set a good example. 

 

Snoke’s shutter clicked as Ren turned Hux’s face toward him.

 

“I knew you would show me eventually,” Ren said, far, far too close and touching his face. “I knew it.”

 

Snoke’s shutter clicked as Hux tore himself out of Ren’s grip. It clicked again as he shoved Ren out of his personal space. Ren caught himself against an overloaded worktable, nearly toppling the whole thing. Glass shattered. Beads and buttons scattered across the floor. 

 

Ren’s expression was beatific somehow, ecstatic as El Greco’s saints. Rot-green paint water dripped down his bare leg. Hux felt his hands locked in fists, the kind that would break your thumb if you punched with them. 

 

Snoke’s scarred and wrinkled face was scrunched with approval. 

 

“I believe it’s time to move on,” he said, then raised his camera for another shot.


End file.
